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Previously, in the House of the Rose Series:

Glass Souls:

The vampires who call themselves djinni protect the mortals of the House of the Rose from Crusader and Saracen alike. When anti-heretic Crusaders massacre the city of Béziers in 1209, most of the Protectors perish trying to protect their charges. Cecilia, the Eldest Protector, survives but saves only the badly wounded Protector Menelaos, who spends the next forty years healing his memories and powers.

When King Louis of France leads a Crusade to Egypt in 1259, Menelaos, now called Dominic, discovers that young cousins Sir Michel and Sir Roland are the reincarnations of Menelaos's beloved djinn wife Honoria and her twin brother, Marcus, who were killed in Béziers. Roland, who was Marcus, is persuaded to transfer his allegiance to the House of the Rose, agreeing to become a Protector. In this role, he finds some measure of success and contentment. But Michel flees in fear for his soul and vanishes into the protective anonymity of the order of the Knights Templar.

When Dominic receives false news of Michel's death, he begins an obsessive quest for his new reincarnation, hoping to reunite with the soul he has loved for so many lifetimes. As the years pass, Dominic despairs and descends into near-madness, drinking the lifeblood of children in his futile search. When Cecilia learns that Michel is alive, she sets out to see if she can successfully recruit him for the House. When she arrives in the Flemish city of Ypres, she discovers that her oldest enemy, the banished soul of the goddess Inanna, has been reincarnated as Blanche, the daughter of Michel's sister Mathilde, who is also a reborn Protector. Cecilia becomes Mathilde's best friend, and arranges a marriage for young Blanche to remove her from contact with the others.

Dominic receives word of Michel's location and journeys in haste to Ypres. He kidnaps Michel, forcibly returning his past-life memories in an attempt to persuade Michel into consenting to become a vampire. In doing so, he discovers that Cecilia has been altering the memories that she returns to the other vampires, and is forced to transform Michel to save his life after inadvertantly triggering the deadly spell that Cecilia set to safeguard discovery of her meddling.

House of Memory:

Cecilia covers up her misdeeds, but only by further crippling Dominic's powers and injuring Michel's memories as well. Later, Dominic and Michel make an uneasy truce while working to transform Michel's ailing sister Mathilde into a vampire. Dominic is still deeply in love with the soul that once belonged to his beloved wife Honoria. Michel, his ability to recall the memories of his past lives damaged by Cecilia's meddling, finds himself struggling to maintain his identity--and his sanity. Honoria, the identity from his immediate past life, proves particularly troublesome. She wants her husband Dominic back, and doesn't find being male in this incarnation an obstacle. Michel, who has been a good Catholic for most of his life, shrinks from the idea of a same-sex relationship. His situation is further complicated by the news that Cecilia's maidservant Tirgit, who was assigned to Michel as his concubine in the last days of his fertility after becoming a vampire, is pregnant with Michel's child. Michel is determined to formalize his relationship with Tirgit, and persuades her to accept the risky honor of becoming a vampire if their child proves to be another Apkallu reborn.

Broken Gods:

Mathilde takes on the duties of a Protector and accepts Dominic as her consort. Together, they travel to Constantinople for her formal appointing as a Protector, and so that Cecilia can return Mathilde's past-life memories. A disagreement between Mathilde and Cecilia over Cecilia's orders to cut off contact with Blanche ends with Cecilia placing a geas on Mathilde that inflicts blinding headaches whenever Mathilde thinks about her daughter.

Meanwhile, Roland, now known as Arjumand, continues to serve as Protector of the House in Muslim lands. As the years pass, and he grows more confident and more mature, he begins to chafe against the many restrictions imposed by the kin of the House upon their Protectors. His dissatisfaction comes to climax when he is forced to transform the seeress Nadira into a vampire despite his deep reservations about her character. His fears prove well-founded when she suborns a newly-found Apkallu, a Mongol youth named Kobegun, and together, they injure and kill several of the kin before being captured and executed. Arjumand, his judgment vindicated, heads further towards open rebellion when he learns from his former lover Mathilde that he is Blanche's father, and that Blanche is the Cursed One. Unwilling now to unquestioningly believe the word of the kin, he vows to discover the truth about his daughter's banishment for himself.

Queen of Heaven:

As Blanche grows to womanhood, Mathilde and Dominic settle down as Protectors of the House in Venice. There, Mathilde begins a quest to cure Dominic's damaged powers as they both deal with the veiled hostility of the Venetian House, who remember Dominic's reign of terror a decade earlier. Mathilde is dogged by mysterious, severe migraines which are triggered by any mention of her daughter.

In London, Michel rejoices in the birth of his son Robert, who is another of the reborn Apkallu. His concubine Tirgit agrees to become a djinniah, and serve at Michel's side as his consort and fellow Protector. Several years pass, during which Tirgit adapts to the life of a djinniah, and baby Robert grows into a healthy toddler. Meanwhile, young Blanche is less fortunate as she comes to womanhood, and finds herself fending off the drunken sexual assaults of her father-in-law. Matters come to a head when her new sister-in-law is also raped, and Blanche takes matters into her own hands by poisoning her father-in-law.

England erupts into civil war, and Cecilia deftly turns the situation to her advantage. She convinces Michel and Tirgit that it would be safer to send young Robert far away from England. She departs for the Moorish kingdom of Granada with the young boy, much to his parents' anguish.

Somel years later, Blanche, now the mother of four sons, reluctantly joins her husband going on Crusade to North Africa with King Louis of France. On the journey, her path crosses with Tirgit, who is on her first solo Raising and Naming progress in the south of France. Tirgit alerts Cecilia that Blanche is on the move, then continues on to the House of the Rose in Beziers, where she discovers an odd duplication of memories in a former Crusader. While investigating the anomaly, she is struck down by a headache similar to the ones afflicting Mathilde. Alarmed by her discoveries, the elders of the House summon Michel, Dominic, and Mathilde to investigate.

At first, Dominic is suspected of having tampered with the memories. He is put on trial by the elders of the House, who soon determine that the memory tampering is Cecilia's doing. Arriving in Beziers, Michel finds himself torn between his carefully-constructed life as a husband and father, and his revived feelings for Dominic, but finds himself unable to come to any resolution. Too many obstacles separate them, not the least the grudges that Cecilia has carefully fostered between them.

Meanwhile, Blanche finds herself widowed and stranded without resources in the Crusader camp outside of Tunis. She is the target of unwelcome attention from her husband's liegemen, who want to force her into marriage and claim her widow's portion and control of her late husband's estate. Her father, Arjumand, is nearby, guarding the kin of the Tunis House against the Crusaders. He intervenes to rescue Blanche from being abducted, but she is seriously wounded. Defying the laws of the House, he Transforms her, and the kin of the Tunis House react by trying to kill them both. Arjumand is outlawed, and flees with a still-unconscious Blanche, taking refuge in caves well away from the city.

Despite his banishment and status as a fugitive, he is convinced that he has done the right thing, especially since the memories he glimpses in Blanche's blood reveal that Cecilia has been lying for millennia about Inanna's role in summoning a meteor that struck ancient Mesopotamia and wiped out the Sumerian civilization--and about her culpability for the Flood that wiped out the cities of the plain, the gods' first world.

When Blanche awakens from her sleep of Transformation, she and Arjumand decide to travel to Constantinople and present the case against Inanna's banishment to Sharibet.

In Beziers, the Protectors gathered there have uncovered evidence of Cecilia's lies, but not the dark secret she's been protecting. They vow to discover the truth...but they face a second crisis when news arrives that Inanna, the Queen of Heaven and Cursed One, has returned, and that she has suborned Arjumand and destroyed the Tunis House.

The Shattered Crown begins just after the end of the events in Queen of Heaven.

Chapter One

"Now I say, [That] the heir, as long as he is a child, differeth nothing from a servant, though he be lord of all; But is under tutors and governors until the time appointed of the father."--The Epistle of Paul to the Galatians, 4:1-2

Dar al-Warda, Malaga, Kingdom of Granada, Monday, 9th of the moon Thul quidah, 668 AH (June 30, AD 1270)

"Aunt Cecilia, when can I go home?" Robert asked, fingers curling around the sharp-edged traceries of the stone window screen. Though he had lived in this hot, sunny, spice-scented city since he was three years old, home meant England. If only he had more than faint memories of green, and rain, and a laughing golden-haired man who threw a ball and tossed him, flying, into the air.

"How many times must we discuss this?" Cecilia asked. She was so beautiful, like a statue on a Christian church come to life, and just as cold.

Outside, the courtyard was clothed in late afternoon's deep shadows. Pots of magically blooming rosebushes scented the air and muffled the noises of the busy city. He kept his gaze on the blood-red flowers, wincing when Cecilia opened his wax-covered lesson board with a clack. He tried to wait calmly until she finished correcting his painstakingly-copied verses from the Qu'ran, but his eyes began to sting with tears. He dared not rub them away. Aunt Cecilia--who was known as Sitt Rasheeda here--did not like to see him cry. Besides, he was nearly ten. Too old to cry.

"Do you remember when I told you why I brought you here?" she asked. As if he could forget, when she said it so many times. "You have a great destiny as a Protector of the House. Some day, the Cursed One will return, and to protect the kin, you must become a great warrior."

He nodded, his mouth dry. He knew exactly what her next words would be.

"You must study hard. Your Mama and Papa sent you to me for fostering, and you don't want to disappoint them--or me--do you, my Utu?"

He didn't like it when she called him Utu. That name made him uncomfortable, as if ants had crawled under his clothing to walk around on his bare skin with tiny, itchy feet. He was Robert. Robert FitzMichael, son of Sir Michael de Murat and Theodora de la Rose, famous Protectors of the House. Not Utu. He was certainly not Lord Rafi abd al-Warda, the blue-eyed Moorish boy he saw daily in the polished metal of his mirror, wearing long robes of embroidered muslin, fringed silk sashes, and a knitted cotton cap dyed rose-red, the color of the House.

"Of course not, Aunt Cecilia," he said dutifully, not looking up at her.

He had been homesick forever, but the sick feeling had gotten worse in the past few months. He couldn't remember what Mama and Papa looked like. Only fragmentary impressions remained: his tall golden Papa smelled of myrrh. He remembered that because a whiff of the fragrant resin from the House's workshops would bring back the safe feeling of strong arms holding him, and a deep laugh. Mama had a soft voice, blue-green eyes, and long hair the same shade of black as his own.

Aunt Cecilia made him write letters to his parents once a month. In those carefully scrutinized missives he detailed his training with the sword, the progress of his lessons, and his trips to the harbor with Master Jaleel, who supervised the unloading of the House's ships and welcomed visiting captains and their crews. His parents wrote back faithfully, but over the last half year fear had begun to chew at his heart. Was his face as much of a blur to them as theirs was to him?

He hated that he was beginning to forget them. If he forgot, Robert FitzMichael might vanish forever, and only Lord Rafi, also known as Utu, would remain.

Quickly, he made his next case for a visit: "I can fight with a sword now! Cousin Antarah says I'm nearly as good as Jamal, even though Jamal is already sixteen. And I've worked hard at my Arabic lessons. And French, too," he added. "So, can I visit Mama and Papa in England? For just a few weeks? I promise I'll work hard at my lessons when I come back. I miss them so much!"

He was immediately sorry he'd added that last plea--he could tell from the subtle hardening of her gaze that he had undermined his goal. Only reasoned argument had any hope of convincing her. Stupid! Stupid! he scolded himself, as he saw her expression grow colder. She frightened him when she looked at him like that.

She sighed and smiled sweetly, but her eyes didn't warm. "My dearest Utu. This house is your home. You think me cruel because I have forbidden you to return to England. But I must tell you a secret."

Her sympathetic expression made his heart pound with greater terror. It was the look grown-ups gave you just before they delivered bad news. I'm sorry I asked to leave! Let them not be dead. Please, not dead!

She was already speaking. "--dearest one, I have just received word from your mother that she discovered, with her own eyes, the Cursed One journeying with the crusaders of the King of France. If you leave us now...the kin will think I'm sending you home because I failed in training you." She moved behind him, trapping him against the window, and he felt her hand heavy on his shoulder.

"Failed?" he whispered, keeping his face turned resolutely toward the window. But I want to go home! And home was not this place, because his mother and his father were not here.

"I'm so sorry," Cecilia murmured, squeezing his shoulder. "I wanted to bear this burden myself, but I can't do it alone. The kin need you. You are Apkallu, a mightier Protector than the House's Crown of Service djinni. Your destiny, your duty, is to stand against the Cursed One. Never forget that." She kissed his forehead, her lips a faint pressure against his skin, and drew him into her embrace. "I love you," she whispered, "like my own son. My darling Utu." She stroked his hair. "Don't cry. You're my brave boy, my shining one."

He buried his face in the smooth, rose-scented silk of her gown. He let her comfort him. But in the depths of his heart he still hated when she called him Utu.

* * *

18th of the moon Muharram, 669 AH (Feast of St. Adrian, Saturday, September 6, AD 1270)

The House was abuzz with preparations for a welcome feast. The Rose of Yarmouth had arrived from London this morning, carrying a cargo of costly ambergris, collected on the shores of England.

With the ship came thick packets of letters from Robert's parents. He was on his very best behavior as he offered to accompany Master Jaleel to the harbor to greet the son of the Master of the London House, Captain Thomas de la Rose.

To Robert's great dismay, Aunt Cecilia insisted on accompanying them. He was forced to endure hours of cargo inventory and negotiations for bales of silk cloth and fine red Cordoban leather. He dared not ask his questions of Captain Thomas while Cecilia was present. He had to wait for a moment when he might escape her chaperonage. But that moment never came.

That evening, the banquet held to welcome the Rose of Yarmouth's crew and captain provided crumbs of precious information about his parents, which Robert gobbled up like a starving beggar. He could have learned much more if Cecilia hadn't kept him close at her side, just as she always did whenever visiting kin or outsiders were entertained. Robert glanced longingly at Captain Thomas. His throat ached with holding in the questions he so desperately wanted to ask.

As platters of spiced lamb and goat made the rounds of the hall, Robert overheard snatches of talk from the kin seated on nearby cushions. There were rumors that Louis, the French king, had fallen ill in Tunis. England was in turmoil, since many of the lords and their knights who formerly kept order had taken the cross and departed to join the King of France's latest Crusade. Even the frivolous heir to the English throne, Prince Edward, had taken the crusading oath, motivated, the kin had no doubt, by the continuing ban on tournaments imposed by his father. The exodus of the knights was having a troubling effect on law and order, leaving criminals with free rein in some counties. And yet, the House prospered: Sir Michael and Elder Sister Theodora vigorously protected the House's English properties, and since the defeat and death of the rebel Simon de Montfort at the Battle of Evesham five years earlier, the London House had regained its position as favored perfumers to the royal court of King Henry.

Robert chewed stubbornly at the food he had no stomach for, and burned with silent resentment at Cecilia's restraining presence. He didn't care about the French king, and even the Crusade on the other side of the Mediterranean was of less interest than news of his parents' valiant defense of the House's manors and farms from outlaws. But he dared not try to turn the subject back. Aunt Cecilia would frown, and sigh.

Then Bashir, the pigeon-keeper's assistant, came running into the hall. He halted in front of the divan where Cecilia reclined, and bowed deeply as the reception hall fell silent. "Sitt Rasheeda, a bird just arrived from the Palermo House, bearing a Red message." He proffered the thin strip of curled paper with shaking fingers.

She reached out to accept it. "Why did this come here?" she asked, voicing Robert's unspoken question. Cousin Antarah had taught him that emergency messages were always sent to the closest House with a Protector in residence. And that would be Venice, where his Aunt Mathilde and Uncle Dominic dwelled. He had never met his aunt. He vaguely remembered Uncle Dominic from a visit to England. He was a tall, quiet, rather scary man with a stripe of white hair like a badger.

Cecilia was reading the message swiftly. Though her expression remained serene, Robert sat close enough to see her eyes dilate with shock, and to hear the hitch in her breath, not quite a gasp. Whatever the news was, it was very very bad.

She confirmed his suspicion when she stood to address the apprehensive kin, who fell completely silent. "Master Giulio reports that the Cursed One, Transformed, has appeared with the crusaders in Tunis. She destroyed the Tunis House, killing the Master and pigeon-keeper there."

The hall resounded with gasps and a rising murmur of reaction and speculation as Cecilia lowered the scarlet-edged message. "I am certain that Lord Dominic and Lady Mathilde are already on their way to avenge the harm done to the House," she said. "But the Cursed One is a fearsome opponent, so I too will leave as soon as possible."

She turned, capturing both Robert and Master Jaleel with an intense gaze. "Before I depart, we must meet in council to decide several important matters. Rafi, Master Jaleel, Mistress Hadiya, please accompany me."

Springing up from his cushion, Robert trotted obediently at her heels, overcome with shock and delight. The Cursed One, returned? His duty, and his destiny, had arrived so soon?

* * *

On her way to the study, Cecilia's mind boiled with a hundred conflicting emotions.

Despite all her work, she doubted that, if called to duty by the House, either Michael or his sister would fight the Cursed One, clad in the flesh of Mathilde's own daughter. And as for their cousin Roland, he was supposed to have been safely tucked away in the Mongol courts in Persia! Not--

The message had contained one more line that Cecilia had not yet shared with the kin:...and the Protector Arjumand assisted the Cursed One. Why had Roland Transformed the girl? Did he know that the Cursed One was his daughter? Oh, he must know, for why else would he side with her?

The galla-demons of a thousand hells devour Inanna! Why, why was it so easy for her to gain the fealty of those who should hate her? Even without his memories as Enlil, Roland could apparently refuse her nothing. So had it ever been, in every lifetime before Inanna's banishment.

And now Cecilia was faced with a dilemma. She needed to depart Malaga, to prevent Inanna from wreaking further havoc, but before that, she must deal with the problem of Utu. The brat was hers, now, but she dared not leave his powers unguarded in her absence. Who knew what treachery Inanna might try next, with three other Apkallu bound to her by close ties?

Cecilia reached the study, and Hadiya, unbidden, pulled the heavy door shut. The Mistress of the Malaga House's gray eyes were troubled as she took her place at her husband's side. She was not one of the local kin. Born Johanna von dem Rosenhaus, she had been sent here from Luebeck as a young woman, after her Raising and Naming.

"Master Jaleel, Mistress Hadiya," Cecilia began, choosing her words carefully. She was about to ask them to break a long-standing tradition, but the present crisis should sway them. "Let me begin by saying that I fear to leave this House without a Protector, especially in light of this troubling development."

"Who would do such a thing?" demanded Hadiya, in her German-accented Arabic. "Who would Transform the Cursed One?"

Cecilia prudently chose not to answer. Instead, she adopted a soothing tone. "I will settle the matter, believe me. But before I go, I wish to secure things here."

"How?" asked Jaleel. Unlike the blonde Hadiya, he had the dark hair and distinctive amber eyes that marked Sharibet's descendants.

She turned to Rafi. The boy, uncharacteristically, was standing silent, his eyes trained on her, quivering like a hound before a hunt. Even as a mortal, his aura outshone Jaleel and Habiya's auras. But that was only to be expected. He was Apkallu, after all. And now it was time for him to accept his destiny. "Rafi, do you stand ready to protect the House in my absence?"

His eyes widened. "Yes! I mean, I do, Aunt Cecilia."

She paused to focus. This next part would be tricky. "Do you consent to be Transformed, and serve the House as Protector?"

Rafi hesitated, and Jaleel broke in. "Sitt Rasheeda, he's too young! We have never permitted the Transformation of those younger than sixteen!"

"Need I remind you that this is a dangerous time for the House?" she asked, with assumed calm. "We will need the strength of all the Apkallu to fight the Cursed One. I would not ask if I did not feel the need was great."

"But--"

Jaleel was not yielding, damn him! Reluctantly, Cecilia unsheathed her hidden weapon. She held out the message she had not shared fully earlier. "The Cursed One suborned Lord Arjumand."

Jaleel and Habiya gasped in horror.

Rafi merely looked apprehensive. "I want to protect the House, Aunt Cecilia," he said, breathlessly. "I agree to be Transformed."

"He's too young to give consent!" Jaleel rallied. "Only one who has been Raised and Named may grant permission for sacrifice, or Transformation, as was decided in the year of the Upheaval of the Black Land."

"But we do not Raise and Name Apkallu until after they have been Transformed," Cecilia returned, keeping her voice even. "I assure you, I have no intention of Raising Rafi, burdening him with the weight of his past lifetimes, until he is of full age. However, if we lose against the Cursed One..."

Jaleel's brown face turned the ruddy color of Cordoban leather, but he bowed his head in reluctant assent.

Smiling inwardly, she proceeded to ensure that the rest of this decision followed the traditional rules. "Do you understand what I am asking of you, Rafi? That you will bear the burden of serving the House for long decades, even centuries, while all of your friends, your teachers, your kin grow old and die?"

He nodded, solemnly. "I've been training for this. I--I consent."

Shakily, Jaleel stepped in with his part of the ritual questioning: "Do you understand that you will become a drinker of blood, forced to conceal your true nature from all except the kin? That men will name you demon if the House ever casts you out? Do you still wish this fearsome transformation? Do you accept this burden, and this gift?"

Rafi nodded again. "I accept. I want this."

He was so eager to prove how grown up he was. "Bear witness then," Cecilia announced. "That Rafi abd al-Warda, also known as Robert FitzMichael, has thrice consented to his Transformation."

All three mortals in the room bowed their heads in agreement. Now that she had obtained what she wanted, Cecilia was willing to mollify Jaleel. "I know this is a departure from tradition. But the House badly needs another Apkallu Protector now."

"I understand," Jaleel said. "But how could this happen? How could the Cursed One--ah, well, I am sure all will be revealed in time," he interrupted himself with a wave of his hand. "In the meanwhile, I will make the arrangements for Lord Rafi's Transformation." He bowed deeply to both of them and left, followed by Habiya.

As soon as they were alone, Rafi said, proudly, "I'll protect the House while you're gone, Aunt Cecilia. You can count on me."

"I know," she said, touching his cheek fondly.

Ah yes, he would serve her well. And if he did not, she could at least ensure that his power did not fall into the wrong hands.

* * *

Text of a Red message sent to all the Houses of the Rose:

Sent 9th Muharram 669 AH (August 28, AD 1270) from Nuha, True Name Sa-Taltal, Grandmother of Tunis House to all the kin of the Rose. Forward instantly. The Cursed One, True Name Inanna, Found & Transformed. Protector Arjumand, True Name Enlil, suborned and cast out. Tunis House destroyed. Master Farid, True Name Shul-zi, and bird-keeper Ismail, True Name Ismat, murdered. Extreme danger. Execute both renegades on sight.

Villerose-sur-Orb, Languedoc, Friday, September 12, AD 1270

Out of the darkness and dreams that had provided blessed surcease from pain, slowly, awareness began to return. Mathilde's first realization was that someone--either Dominic or her brother--had placed her on a bed. She smelled clean linen overlaid with the sharp scents of dried laurel leaf and lavender, felt the softness of a pillow beneath her aching head.

And with awareness, came memory:

...The chiming of the dovecote bell echoing through the courtyard, announces the arrival of an important message...the dim, stuffy confines of the parlor, crowded with too many anxious bodies...Sir Jean's voice, reading the contents of the red-bordeRed message newly-arrived by pigeon...Cecilia's curse striking like a crossbow bolt through the head...

Roland. Blanche...Pain stirred like an asp, ready to strike again, and she hastily diverted her thoughts away from the forbidden topic of her dau--

Better to worry about Roland, and wonder what fit of insanity had possessed him to destroy the Tunis House. During their brief reunion a decade ago in Constantinople for her Appointing, she had seen the change in him. Outwardly, he remained the golden youth who had been her sweet lover, but his duties seemed to weigh on him. His smiles and carefree laughter had crystallized, as if honey had crystallized to golden gemstone.

But for him to side with...with that person...and to injure and kill the kin he had sworn to protect...A new pain sprang up, this time in the region of her heart.

"Mathilde? Are you awake?" The deep, quiet voice was her husband Dominic's.

She forced her eyes open but kept her mental shields firmly in place. The bedroom was dim--someone had closed the shutters--but fiery sparkles of afternoon light forced themselves through cracks between wood and stone window frame. Her skull felt as thin and fragile as eggshell. If she allowed another djinn in, it might shatter.

"God be thanked," Michael said, somewhere off to her left. Her brother's anxious concern battered at the doors of their newly-established blood-bond.

Then she smelled the familiar scent of blood and oranges. Dominic's hand came behind her neck, lifting her. The cool rim of a cup pressed against her lips. Mathilde drank greedily, feeling the terrible throbbing in her head recede with each swallow of the preserved blood. When she had gulped down two large cupfuls, she found herself sufficiently restored to sit up without her consort's help, and to take notice of her company.

Besides Michael and Dominic, there was Michael's consort Tirgit--I must remember to call the girl Theodora--and golden-eyed Lady Alais, the mistress of this rose-farm.

"Tilde." Michael wore an expression she remembered well: he had, after all, once been a preceptor of the Templars. "Are you recovered? We must talk."

Mathilde nodded, pain subsiding to a mere worm crawling through her temples.

Her husband glanced at her brother, and she saw unspoken communication flash between them. It was the exchange of warriors who were long-familiar allies. "A war on two fronts presents a challenge," Michael said aloud, for the benefit of the others in the room.

Two fronts? thought Mathilde, an instant before she remembered: Cecilia and her wanton tampering with the minds and memories of the djinni must also be dealt with. "I don't want to fight them, either of them," she whispered, tears stinging. I don't want to fight at all.

Dominic said, "We must discover what memories Cecilia wants so desperately to conceal from us. It is likely the more dangerous course, since she has already placed geases in us that force us to fight ourselves, before we can begin to oppose her. I suggest that we deal with--with the Cursed One, first." He searched Mathilde's face for a sign that Cecilia's cruel geas to keep her thoughts from...that person was about to strike her down again.

But Mathilde had become practiced in diverting attention from the source of her pain. "I think we should not discuss this until Sir Jean can join us. We may not have time to convene another council of elders, but we should include the Raised and Named kin of this House, at least, in our deliberations."

Michael nodded. "Summon your husband, Mistress," he commanded Alais.

"Lord," she acknowledged, with a deep curtsey, and left.

Michael took Tirgit's hand and went with her to the chamber's door. "Rest, Tilde. I will summon you to the parlor when we are ready to proceed."

Tirgit said shyly, "I hope you feel much better, soon." Then they departed.

Dominic settled himself on the edge of their bed and reached out to smooth her hair tenderly.

It was tempting to yield to weakness, to let him and Michael bear this burden. If it comes to battle, can I raise a sword against my own flesh and blood? She raised her chin and met his gaze squarely. "If we can't find a peaceful resolution...I am a Protector of the House. As you have taught me, Dominic."

His expression remained as controlled as ever, but she had lived with him long enough to read his relief in the slight softening of his lips. She raised a hand, noticing how it trembled, and drew him close. He yielded, his eyes closing in anticipation of her kiss.

"I am your consort, your helpmeet," she whispered against his lips. "And I will do my duty, at your side."

"I know," he murmured, his lips brushing hers in a kiss as soft and sweet as he always gave, with tenderness and devotion, but very little passion.

* * *

As village church bells rang Vespers in the distance, Mathilde came shakily down the narrow stairs to the hot and stuffy great hall. Sweaty and more than a little dizzy, wishing for some breath of air, she stood waiting in the company of her husband, her brother, and his consort, for the kin to finish assembling.

When everyone had arrived, Sir Jean de Pezenas, Master of this House of the Rose though he had been Found and returned after his Raising and Naming, said bluntly to their djinni Protectors, "We are afraid. And I most of all, for I know more."

In the short time since Mathilde's arrival here, she had come to rely on Sir Jean's good sense and humor. To see his tanned and weather-worn features now pinched and grim made his announcement all the more serious. Jean's wife, Lady Alais, who bore the stamp of her direct descent from Sharibet, clung to his hand, and nodded. The rest of the Raised and Named adults from the estate--some twenty members of the kin, who served as gardeners, perfumers, grooms, and housemaids--likewise showed their agreement.

A wiry man, introducing himself as the head gardener, spoke up. "Lords, lady, elder sister," he addressed the djinni, looking at each of them in turn. "My name is Philippe, True Name Sisi Ki-an, remember me! Can you tell us how the Cursed One was made a djinniah again? Is she coming here? Will we have to--" he swallowed visibly, and Mathilde could see perspiration gleaming with an oily sheen on his brow, "--fight her?"

Looking every inch the proud knight, Michael answered for the gathered djinni. "On our oaths as your Protectors, we know nothing of the Cursed One's return, but we will certainly guard you should the Cursed One attack. However, we were summoned here to unravel a different mystery discovered by Elder Sister Theodora."

He outlined what Tirgit and Mathilde had discovered: that Cecilia, contrary to all the oaths and covenants of Apkallu to the House regarding Raising and Naming, had altered his memories.

Mathilde took a deep draught of blood from her goblet, hoping to chase away the lingering remnants of her earlier headache. The kin watched one another uneasily as the import of Michael's words sank in. They began to whisper worriedly: "...but how can we let her Raise and Name us, if she's going to change our memories?" "Didn't know the djinni could do that!" "Is that why Elder Sister Theodora canceled the Raising and Naming ceremony last week?"

Mathilde took another sip of the blood in her goblet, and grimaced. It was already starting to congeal in the heat. That didn't bother her so much as the words that her husband had spoken earlier: A war on two fronts presents a challenge.

A challenge, she thought, bitterly. Will they force me to take up the sword and seek my dau--that person's--life and Roland's life, too? And what of Cecilia, her sweet-faced good-sister, who had sat at Mathilde's bedside nursing her through terrible bouts of the consumption that had slowly been devouring her before Michael had Transformed her? Even knowing how masterfully Cecilia had meddled with her own memories, so that she could not even think of--of that person--without being punished by a savage headache, could Mathilde really raise a sword against the woman she had considered her friend? Who had been her sister Ereshkigal in other lifetimes?

Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, she thought, and forced her attention back to the business at hand.

"What do you propose we do, Lord Michael?" Sir Jean was asking.

"First, I would like to request that Dominic be released from house arrest so that he may carry out his duties as Protector."

Michael looked at her expectantly, and with an effort, Mathilde marshalled her lagging thoughts.

"I agree," she said, as crisply as if she hadn't been maundering about Cecilia's betrayal, and then, because everyone seemed to be expecting more, she added, "What I discovered in searching Dominic's and Michael's memories is definitive proof that Cecilia was responsible for the tampering. It was not, and could not have been Dominic's fault. Or Michael's, or Tirgit's, for that matter."

A she expected, that set off another round of frightened whispers.

Lady Alais exchanged a swift glance with her husband, then gave a regal nod. "That would be acceptable to us. We shall send messages to the Beziers House and all of our neighboring estates advising of Lord Dominic's release. The elders will want to know more, of course; if we could request a detailed report of your findings to follow by messenger, Lady Mathilde?"

"I'll write it for you in the morning," Mathilde promised, though she wanted nothing more than to crawl into her bed and sleep for days. Her long flight from Ragusa had left her deeply fatigued in body, and the news she had received had wearied her soul.

"And what of Cecilia?" Dominic asked, his calm deep voice a soothing counterpoint to the anxiety radiating from the assembled kin.

"I--I suppose we should send messages about that as well," Alais said, weakly. "But it will cause a lot of trouble. Are you absolutely certain that Lady Cecilia is responsible?" That last came out as a rather shaky appeal.

Mathilde knew the woman was still reeling from the revelation that Cecilia, considered for millennia as the House's chief Protector, had violated all their trust: to guard and return, undamaged, the past-life memories of kin and Protectors alike. It had been easier for everyone to believe that Dominic, the Child-killer, had committed this crime in his mad pursuit of Michael. Even Mathilde, who loved and trusted her husband, was well aware of the near-madness that drove him to his sins. She knew how deep Dominic's feelings ran for Michael, who had been his beloved wife Honoria in his most recent past life, and lover and consort for far longer.

"Of course we trust Lady Mathilde's findings. It just that...well, the Eldest..." added Sir Jean, flushed now (though it might have been the heat inside the sealed hall), "Nevertheless, we shall send out Red messages about Lady Cecilia's alleged crimes to every Master within pigeon range, and forbid her to perform any Raisings or Namings until such time as she answers these charges to a council of elders."

"Speaking of guilt and innocence," Lady Alais said, shooting Dominic a black look. "What of Lord Michael's consent to his Transformation? Is not Lord Dominic guilty of--"

"The issue was whether Dominic had tampered with my brother's memories during his Raising and Naming," Mathilde interrupted. Both Dominic and Michael had gone tense at Alais's words, and Mathilde was determined not to allow Alais to distract them from the real threat. "He has been found innocent of tampering. As to whether consent was properly obtained, I believe that it should be left to Michael to decide whether he wants to pursue the issue with the council of elders, or settle the matter privately with Dominic."

<And what, exactly, do you intend to do?> Mathilde asked him, taking advantage of their newly-established blood bond to speak privately, mind-to-mind. Would Michael yield to his knightly upbringing, and battle Dominic to satisfy his outraged honor? And if so, who would win? Michael was the more powerful djinn, but he could be driven by emotion. And Dominic was a clever warrior, even with his aura still injured from the massacre at Beziers nearly three-quarters of a century past.

Would she lose both of them?

Michael didn't answer for long moment, and Mathilde saw shadows threading through the bright golden aura-wings that surrounded him. "I would prefer to resolve the issue myself," Michael said, quickly, giving Dominic an unreadable look.

Well, that's more promising than an outraged call for immediate vengeance, Mathilde thought.

Dominic bent his dark head. "I will abide by Michael's decision, whatever it may be," her husband said, sounding appropriately humble. He took her hand, both receiving and offering comfort from his palm pressed against hers.

"Furthermore," Dominic continued. "I wish to offer my apologies for Transforming Michael without his consent. It was never my intent to harm one who is so dear to me. I was relieved to hear that my attempt to Raise and Name Michael was not what injured his memories and crippled his ability to recall his past lives."

"Nevertheless, you have committed a grave trespass against the laws of the House and the djinni," Sir Jean said.

"Further investigation is required," Mathilde said, before the tide could turn too far in the direction of condemning her husband. "I am convinced that all these events revolve around whatever it is that Cecilia is trying to conceal from us. If Michael and Dominic agree, I will taste their blood again, and look deeper into the events surrounding my brother's Transformation."

Dominic's grip tightened, and she felt his wordless pulse of gratitude through their link. Tenderness, respect, affection....it was better than nothing, but she would never be his soulmate the way that Honoria, his previous incarnation, had been. Honoria, who was now her brother. How strange was fate!

"Now I wish to address the greater threat--the Cursed One." Michael said.

"Yes, of course," said Sir Jean, shifting his weight uncomfortably. The kin fell silent, awaiting their Protector's announcement with open anxiety.

Mathilde felt anxious, too. What course of action would he recommend against his cousin and his niece?

"Here is what we know of the Cursed One, thanks to Lord Arjumand's regular correspondence to Lady Mathilde," Dominic said, in response to a silent prompt from Michael. "Lady Cecilia arranged an honorable marriage for the Cursed One to Evrard, the heir of Bressoux, an estate which lies less than an hour's ride from the city of Liege. She bore one stillborn child and four healthy sons before leaving Bressoux to accompany her husband and his liege men on Crusade. After this point, we have only the bare facts from yesterday's pigeon post. She must have arrived in Carthage with the French fleet, and somehow met and suborned Lord Arjumand. He Transformed her, and together they destroyed the Tunis House, and killed some of the kin. We do not currently know the Cursed One's whereabouts, or her plans."

Michael nodded and took up the thread. "But we do know that she left her children behind at Bressoux," he said, and Mathilde's heart constricted. "I propose that we send Lord Dominic to fetch them here. My sister wishes to assure herself of her grandchildren's safety, of course--" He flashed Mathilde a wolfish grin.

Mathilde swallowed instinctive outrage at the thought of holding that person's children hostage, and forced herself to examine her brother's plan logically. It had a great deal of merit. She would be able to meet the boys and ensure their safety. It was a time-honored custom to hold hostages to guarantee the terms of a treaty. If it became necessary to negotiate with that person, the children might prove useful in establishing compliance with any sort of agreement that they reached.

"It's a sensible plan," Dominic murmured with approval.

Well he might, Mathilde thought crossly, since it sounded like something he had thought of. Had he been the one to suggest it to Michael?

"Lord, do you mean to lure the Cursed One here?" Sir Jean protested.

"And do you really think that Lord Dominic should be the one--I mean, the children..." Alais added, looking greensick.

"My husband would never--" Mathilde began, at the same time that Tirgit said: "I would trust Lord Dominic with my son--" Dominic appeared unperturbed at Alais's unsubtle reminder of his sins in Venice, when he had been searching for Honoria and blind to the auras that would have aided his quest.

Michael raised his voice and overrode them. "I place my full faith in Dominic in this matter. And Lady Mathilde will, of course, be accompanying him."

<I will?> Mathilde shot him.

He winked at her. <Better you than anyone.>

"But--" Lady Alais wasn't ready to surrender quite yet.

Understanding Michael's plan in an instant, Mathilde said, "I will accompany my consort to Bressoux, since it will arouse less suspicion if their grandmother arrives in the company of her husband. I am certain we can...convince the boys' aunt and uncle to surrender custody to us." If verbal persuasion failed, there was always the Voice of Coercion to work her will.

Dominic added, "With four children, we will need two djinni to transport them safely and speedily to Villerose-sur-Orb. We must fly. It is too risky and too slow to travel overland."

"And once you bring the Cursed One's children here, you will stay to--to care for them?" Sir Jean asked. "To protect us in case she comes?"

"Of course," Mathilde said. Dominic echoed her.

"While we're on the topic of hostages," Michael said. "I leave for Malaga tomorrow evening. I am determined to fetch my son out of Cecilia's power with all possible haste."

Alais swayed, clutching her husband's arm for support. "Lord," she said, in a choked voice. "Do you truly mean not only to attract the attention of the Cursed One to our house, but also to move openly against Lady Cecilia? Is that a good idea?"

Michael's aura blazed, and his mouth compressed to a thin line. "Would you be asking this if Cecilia were holding your son in her power, a power she has been proven to have misused?"

"N-no, lord." Alais sank into a deep curtsey, and her voice faded to a scratchy whisper. "Forgive me, lord."

Sir Jean radiated disapproval, but he did not speak.

"Very well," Michael declared. "It's decided. Lord Dominic, Lady Mathilde, and I will depart soon--tomorrow evening, I would think--and we will bring with us as many Red messages as we can carry, to warn all the Masters of all the Houses in Europe, if possible. We can send pigeons from every House where we stop, and should return within a fortnight. Elder Sister Theodora will stay here to serve as your Protector."

No one voiced a protest, but, glancing around the room, Mathilde saw that her worries were clearly shared by the rest of the kin. They were right to be concerned. This peaceful rose farm might become the first battlefield in a civil war between Apkallu.

Chapter Two

"And Esau said unto his father, Hast thou but one blessing, my father? bless me, [even] me also, O my father. And Esau lifted up his voice, and wept."

--Book of Genesis, 27:38

Villerose-sur-Orb, Languedoc, Saturday, September 13, AD 1270

"That's the last of them," Michael said with grim satisfaction the next day, as he put down his quill and massaged ink-stained fingers. It was three hours before sunset, and he was eager to depart once night came. The flight down the Spanish coast to Malaga would be grueling, but he wanted to catch Cecilia by surprise, so that, at the end of it, he could hold his son again. "Mathilde will countersign these after she and Alais finish brewing more of that infernal potion."

"Despite the taste, it does help with the geas headaches," Dominic said mildly.

He looked as tired as Michael felt. The two of them had stayed up almost all night planning strategies for dealing with Cecilia and the Cursed One. Michael regretted bringing the conflict to Sir Jean's hearth and home, but both he and Dominic had agreed that of all the local Houses of the Rose, Villerose-sur-Orb was the most defensible and was also situated comfortably away from any cities or villages. If need be, the djinni could fight using their powers, without fear of discovery by outsiders.

Michael studied the other djinn. Dominic stood at the other writing table, bent over his furiously-scratching pen, striving to finish his share of the messages shortly to be sent out via pigeon-post to every House of the Rose throughout Europe and Norh Africa. His dark hair was marred by a broad white streak, legacy of his injury in Beziers sixty years ago. Even with the miraculous healing ability of djinni, he was still crippled from that dreadful day. Would he ever be fully healed in this life?

Not that Michael could, or would, do anything to dishonor the bonds each of them now shared with their respective consorts, but...it still hurt him to see Dominic in pain, no matter what else he had done.

He focused on the slender stack of red-edged paper ribbons balanced on the slanted surface of the desk in front of him as hot golden sunlight and the dusty smells of late afternoon poured in through the opened windows of the parlor. Each of them bore the same text, as agreed to by the kin.

Dominic finished writing, sanded the ink to help dry it, and straightened up, rolling his broad shoulders. His gray eyes rested on Michael with a thoughtful expression.

They had carefully avoided speaking of anything personal since Mathilde's revelation that Dominic had indeed Transformed Michael without his consent. The news about the Cursed One, arriving hard on the heels of Mathilde's report and the resulting crisis had allowed him to avoid thinking too much about what he should do with that truth.

What did he want from Dominic? Aside from his shattered oaths to the Templars, becoming a djinn had brought Michael only benefits: his crippled leg healed, his true identity as Ea restored to him, and the opportunity to indulge in his appetite for knowledge. In none of these things had Dominic harmed him. Only Michael's sense of honor had been injured by his assumption that he had forsworn his sacred vows, but he hadn't done that. The memory had been constructed by Cecilia. It wasn't true. And Dominic's action had in fact saved him, against his will, from a lonely, frustrated life of self-denial and unnecessary suffering, especially now that news had come that King Louis's Crusade had failed. And the Saracens, under the aggressive Egyptian Sultan Baybars al Bundukdari, had taken back so much territory already in the Holy Land, and sworn to take it all. What use would Templars be without their mission?

What to do? He certainly did not want to subject Dominic to another trial before the council of elders. Spilling blood in a duel could not unmake the past.

And he did not want to. If Dominic had not found him and Transformed him, Michael would never have met and married Tirgit, and never have had the joy of a son to love. A son, he reminded himself, with whom he would soon be reunited.

Dominic seemed to sense his thoughts. With swift strides he crossed the parlor, kneeling, to Michael's astonishment, at his feet.

"I meant what I said earlier," he said in a low voice. "I never wanted to bring you harm. I--I love you. Male, female, god, goddess, king, queen, or knight, I have always loved you. That I did force your consent, and that the reason why is hidden from me--" His voice shook.

A third course lies open to you, Brother Michael, Honoria spoke in his mind, her tone less acerbic than usual.

Brother Michael? Her reference to his Templar title startled him.

You were raised a Christian, as I was.

Did she mean him to surrender himself to the knights who still sought him for his unwilling desertion from the Order? What would that solve?

What's the end of that prayer you like so much? Her impatience was back in full force.

Then Michael understood. How blind had he been, not to see this way before? And yet...and yet...It felt like the correct thing to do. The only thing to do.

He placed his right hand on Dominic's head, as if administering a blessing. "I believe you when you said you repent of your actions, and I forgive you for you trespasses against me, Dominic."

Forgive. The word hung between them, written in the hot light spilling through the windows. Then Dominic's shoulders shook, and a choked sound escaped him.

As Dominic struggled to control his emotions, Michael stood quiet, strangely peaceful. Forgiveness. A different path, though it is neither part of the laws of the House nor the way of the djinni.

"Time alters everything save the bonds we share together," Dominic said, showing no inclination to rise from his kneeling position. Tears tracked down his cheeks. "I am most heartily sorry for the grievous wrong I did you. Your forgiveness is--is..." He sat back on his heels, overcome.

"I know," Michael said, his hand still resting on Dominic's head. "Get up. Be free of this burden. We have much left to do."

Very slowly, Dominic stood, wiping his face and straightening his robe, shrugging as if he were, indeed, releasing a weight from his shoulders.

When the other djinn regained his composure, Michael said, "Let us hope that Mathilde can find the answer to why Cecilia wrought such an elaborate lie about that night. In the meanwhile, I wish you and my sister a safe journey and a safe return from Bressoux."

"I wish you the same," Dominic said. He closed the short distance between them, placing a warm, chaste kiss on Michael's mouth.

He did not press further. Michael had made his feelings regarding Dominic's obsessive love plain, with Tirgit and Mathilde under the same roof--but Michael felt lighter, as if he had thrown off his own old burden of pain and guilt.

* * *

An hour later, in the room he shared with his consort, Michael finished belting his three-quarter length tunic.

"My lord, please take me with you," Tirgit said, her voice nearly inaudible behind the curtain of dark hair that concealed her face. Her head was bent, all her attention seemingly fixed on the pair of leather boots she held out to him.

Her aura was brighter and larger than it had been right after her Transformation, but it would be decades before her wings grew enough to enable her to fly. If she accompanied him, he would have to carry her on the long flight south to the Kingdom of Granada, and then bear a double burden on the return trip.

"Tirgit, mine own sweetheart. You know I cannot."

She helped him put the boots on, and after, he crooked an affectionate finger under her pointed chin, tipping her face up to his. Her changeable blue-green eyes, striking against her black brows, were red-rimmed with weeping and sleeplessness.

"The kin want a Protector here, in case there's trouble while we're gone." He did not have to mention the Cursed One--or Cecilia. Tirgit had taken the news of Cecilia's betrayal to heart. The Eldest had been her goddess, foster-mother, and before their marriage--Michael winced internally--occasional lover.

"I know," Tirgit said. A fresh batch of tears welled up and trickled from the corner of her eyes. "I only wish for us to be a real family."

"I do, too," he said, firmly putting any thought of Dominic from his mind. He bent and kissed away her tears, tasting warm salt. "I promise I'll be back within a fortnight, and Mathilde and Dominic should return by then as well. I'm certain they'll need help with the children. Blanche has four sons, all under the age of ten. Once Robert arrives, this house will be a lively place indeed."

That won him a tremulous smile. "He'll enjoy meeting his cousins."

Michael nodded. "I'm sure of it."

He patted his belt pouch, hearing the clink of coin and the satisfying rustle of parchment. On his return journey with Robert, he would stop at every House of the Rose along the way to distribute the warnings about Cecilia, and to assure the kin that their Protectors stood ready to deal with the Cursed One and the renegade Arjumand.

Renegade...It stilled boggled him that his cousin Roland, his own boyhood protector, would have defected to the Cursed One.

You know why he did, Honoria whispered.

He had never believed her suspicions that his sister and Roland had shared an adulterous relationship, that Roland had left Mathilde with child before going on Crusade. It was still unbelievable, though Mathilde had confessed the truth, and Roland's actions seemed to prove it.

He plucked his cloak off its peg, and slung it jauntily over one shoulder. "Give me a kiss, sweetheart, and escort me to the roof. You'll be holding our son in your arms by the next full moon."

* * *

In the djinni's suite on the second floor, Mathilde gazed out the small window, putting off her next action while twilight stained the sky the color of glowing charcoal. There was a breeze, but it bore no hint of coolness. Instead it roasted her like a heated draft from an ancient hypocaust.

When the clouds lost their lurid hue and faded to a uniform gray, she reluctantly donned a woolen gown, more suitable to autumn than to this summer heat. The warm clothing would be comfortable once she and Dominic began their journey north, but right now she felt like a bird being baked into a pastry shell, slowly cooking in her own juices.

"Lady, will you be taking the cloak, as well?" asked Elise, the inquisitive maid who had been assigned to attend both Mathilde and Tirgit.

Mathilde studied the heavy drape of brown wool trimmed with squirrel, and shuddered. More likely than not, it would be raining when they reached the north. She would be grateful for the extra warmth when they crossed the mountains that lay between this place and Bressoux, but what she wanted right now was a cool bath and a gown made from thin handkerchief linen.

Along with the cloak, she had to don thick knitted hosen underneath her gown, though the very thought seemed to draw forth a wave of prickling perspiration. Perhaps she could just pack them? And carry them...Her aura-wings began to ache with a not-quite-substantial throb, anticipating the pain that would come after a long flight.

It was six hundred or more miles north and east to Liege, with no time to rest until they had brought the children safely south to Villerose-sur-Orb. Luckily Dominic would be with her. She could rely on his strength if hers failed.

As if summoned by her thought, he entered the bedchamber. To her astonishment, he gave her a genuine smile, his gray eyes shining with--Was that happiness?

His radiance left her wrestling down jealousy. "You've spoken with Michael." She knew her brother would never betray her or his own honor, so it was foolish to resent the fact that Dominic rarely smiled like that for her. Even after ten years of marriage and consortship, she still wished she could be the recipient of such eternal devotion.

Elise paused in braiding Mathilde's hair, her face averted, her ears cocked.

<Well, this conversation will be common knowledge amongst the kin within an hour,> she said, mind-to-mind. <Duel or trial?> Neither of those possibilities seemed likely as a cause for joy.

<Neither,> he sent. His smile deepened until an elusive, seldom-seen dimple appeared in his right cheek. "I am forgiven." <And I don't care who knows.>

Mathilde restrained the urge to gape. Forgiven? Trust my brother to do the unexpected!

His smile dimmed. "I have a boon to ask of you."

"Michael's forgiveness is not enough for you?" she guessed.

He gave a nod. "Will you look into my memories again? I need to know what Cecilia was trying to hide."

"And I always thought Michael was the font of insatiable curiosity," she murmured. It was easier to jest, than to face what they could not speak of.

Her husband's lips quirked.

Was he amused? Sympathetic? It was her turn to speak. "I agree--we need to know. Can it wait until after we've retrieved the children and returned here? I don't want to risk being struck down by a geas before we depart." Or seeing what's in your heart...

"That's reasonable," he agreed, and reached for his cloak, which was hanging alongside hers on a wooden peg. Then he opened the great carved chest that stood at the foot of the bed, and extracted his own flying clothes--thick woolen leggings like her own, and a long quilted jerkin. "Sir Jean is already waiting in the courtyard to bid us farewell."

* * *

Dar al-Warda, Malaga, Kingdom of Granada, Saturday, 26th of the moon Muharram, 669 AH (September 13, AD 1270)

Three days after waking from his Tranformation, the most frightening, most exhilarating event of his life, Robert stood in the reception hall under the assessing gazes of Aunt Cecilia, Master Jaleel, Mistress Habiya, and Cousin Antarah, his tutor. He strained to solidify his great green wings of light, but they refused to coalesce, and passed through the target without making it so much as quiver. Thus had it been at twenty paces, then fifteen, then ten...He knew that he should be able to lift the gilded metal platter from the table that stood five steps away, but...With each command from Cecilia to move closer to the table, he felt his shame increase.

There was something wrong with him. Moving objects with his aura should be easy, the easiest of all the things a djinn could do, from every story Aunt Cecilia had ever told him. But doing it felt like he was trying to summon forth powers that were securely locked away. In fact, he could almost feel the solidity of bands imprisoning something within his chest, something that yearned and strained for freedom. He knew if he could just try a little harder, his power--his real power--would break those bands and...

The platter stayed put, no matter how frantically he lashed it with his wing. He gulped air into his burning lungs, and felt the cool tickle of sweat on his face, the back of his neck. Why can't I do this?

"Move closer," said Cecilia, patiently. But Robert saw the dismay in Master Jaleel's face.

Robert stepped closer. Now he could have simply reached out with his physical hand to move it. He gathered his aura, fighting the unnatural sluggishness, and tried again

This time the platter moved, sliding a hands-breadth to the left. Robert stopped, panting, but triumphant. It moved! I did it!

Cousin Antarah's next words were crushing. "So, he's no more powerful than a Crown of Service djinn?" Master Jaleel's younger brother, he was an unflappably calm and quietly rigorous teacher, and Robert had always had to work very hard to garner his approval during their lessons.

Cecilia quickly stepped to Robert's side, and put her arm around him, showing her support. It didn't help. He wanted to be strong! He was trying so hard!

"The fault is probably mine," she said quietly. "It appears I made an error in Transforming Lord Rafi so young." She sighed, drawing him closer, and Robert felt her great silver aura-wings surrounding him, like the touch of the finest muslin draperies, nearly transparent and as ephemeral as cobwebs. "I only wanted to protect the House..." She bowed her head, regret radiating from every line of her posture.

Robert felt even worse. They had all been counting on him. He had failed the House...and Aunt Cecilia.

"But Lord Marcus was able to call down lightning when he was but eleven, and still mortal," Master Jaleel protested.

Robert cringed. What would his parents think of him when they heard that he couldn't even solidify his aura? He had been practicing every day since he woke from his Transformation! It wasn't fair! He felt so strong, so alive...and so sure that this should come easily to him.

And now they were all disappointed with him. What was he doing wrong?

Robert glanced up, and what he saw startled him. For an instant, Cecilia smirked, her expression hidden from the others by the long veil covering her hair. She looked like...like she was happy he was crippled. And then the expression vanished, and he wondered if he had imagined it. After all, why would she be pleased that he'd woken up without his full powers?

* * *

That night Cecilia departed for Italy, where she guessed the Cursed One would go first. The kin speculated endlessly as to how the confrontation would play out. The next day started with Robert's usual instruction in swordplay just after the pre-dawn Fajr call to prayer.

Cousin Khalil was an experienced warrior, and served as the chief of the baggage train guards for overland shipments to other cities in the Kingdoms of Castile, Aragon, and Granada. When he was home, he taught the older boys how to wield various weapons. He worked Robert hard that morning, until his arms burned with strain and his knees were shaky, finally giving reluctant words of praise when Robert managed to parry every blow. Robert treasured those a few words, sweet as honey balm over the sting of his failure to properly employ his aura.

If he couldn't use his aura the same way that Aunt Cecilia could, then he would become the most famous swordsman in the kingdom of Granada, and protect the kin of the House with the power of his blade. He could do that. He was physically stronger than any of the other boys now, and most of the grown men.

Just before the evening meal, Robert and Cousin Antarah were both summoned to Master Jaleel's study. Wondering what the Master wanted, Robert followed in Antarah's wake, head raised high, conscious that he was Protector of the House, and glad the other children saw him being summoned into an official House council session with the adults. The one thing he hadn't expected about becoming a djinn was that he could no longer eat with his age-mates. They were in the House, but not of it yet, and so not allowed to know--officially--what he ate now. What he drank, he reminded himself. He didn't mind the blood, really. It was just lonely to eat by himself...

He had barely settled onto one of the large floor cushions when Jaleel said: "We've been discussing your plight, Lord Rafi, and we wonder if perhaps Lady Cecilia didn't deliberately...that is to say, your powers..." Jaleel pulled nervously at the colored thread of his embroidered sleeves. Robert had long ago come to the conclusion that Master Jaleel liked to worry, but he seemed even more agitated tonight than usual.

"There are good reasons for waiting until a boy can grow a beard before Transforming him," murmured Cousin Antarah. His dark gaze rested on Robert, assessing him.

Robert swallowed down sudden nausea. He was Protector of the House, this House, wasn't he? But still..."I'll protect you if the C-cursed One comes here," he said, hating the fact that he stumbled over his vow. "Cousin Khalil said I had--"

Shocked, Habiya said, " Lord Rafi, it is we who must protect you. Sitt Rasheeda named you our Protector, but you're only a child!" She stopped herself, hand to her lips.

"How can we ensure his safety?" Antarah asked, reasonably enough.

There was a long silence. Habiya stared intently at the diamond-patterned rug. Jaleel stared at Robert. Should he say something? He wasn't sure what.

Then Master Jaleel cleared his throat. "We cannot ensure the young lord's safety." The lamplight shone on the dark planes of his face and the ridged frown on his forehead. "And he cannot...that is..." He smiled apologetically at Robert. "It seems that the most prudent course of action in Sitt Rasheeda's absence is to send you to your parents."

"His parents," breathed Habiya, and her sudden smile was almost blinding.

"They, at least, have a chance of protecting him properly," Antarah agreed.

After all this time, after years of homesickness and begging Aunt Cecilia...Robert wanted to agree so badly that the words tasted like steel and oranges in his throat. But what emerged was, "I can't leave."

"What?"

"I'm your Protector," Robert said, stubbornly. "I can't just...run away."

"Apkallu or not, you're a nine-year-old boy," Jaleel said, firmly.

Robert had thought he'd be only too happy to have a djinn--even one as weak as himself--stay.

"We are the adults. We have been Raised and Named. It is our duty to protect you until you're old enough to remember," Habiya added. She smiled, and touched his cheek with maternal affection. "I'm sure that Lord Michael and Elder Sister Theodora long to see you."

Antarah said. "We're lucky that the final shipment of leather from Cordoba hasn’t arrived yet. Captain Thomas is still in port. He can take you back to London as soon as it's received and loaded. No time to waste!" He rubbed his hands together, pleased with his brother's solution.

"But..." said Robert. Oh, he wanted to see his parents again. But he was a Protector. He had promised...

"You can protect us better by leaving than by staying," Master Jaleel said harshly. Then he softened. "When you're older, and in possession of your full powers, then we will rejoice in your return, Lord Rafi."

Mistress Habiya nodded solemnly. "Go, and let your father finish your training," she urged. "Don't forget to write to us."

Robert sighed. "I--I'll miss you. All of you." And it was even true. He had wanted to go home for such a long time, but he would miss Mistress Habiya, and Cousin Antarah, and even Master Jaleel, with his complaints and his fussing.

Antarah rose, and put a large, warm hand on Robert's shoulder. "I will help you pack."

* * *

Dar al-Warda, Malaga, Kingdom of Granada, Tuesday, 28th of the moon Muharram, 669 AH (Feast of St. Edith, September 16, AD 1270)

Somehow, Habiya's practical questions about how many clean shirts Robert should bring on his journey, and whether he needed to pack his winter cloak, and what gifts might be appropriate to send along to the kin London, had seeped into Robert's dreams. He was scrabbling around in his half-remembered rooms in London, frantically chasing after mice with the beaks of birds that must be packed in his trunk for the journey....

"Lord, wake up. Lord Rafi, you must wake up!"

Someone was shaking him, and it was enough to disrupt the dream. Robert groaned, opened his eyes, and lunged out of bed with a sudden jolt of apprehension. Had he overslept? Was the Rose of Yarmouth about to sail without him? Confused, he noticed it was still dark in his chamber. The ship wasn't due to sail until the hour of Dhuhr, the midday call to prayer.

Cousin Antarah was standing next to his bed, holding a lamp.

Robert blinked at the too-bright light. His eyes felt gritty, and his thoughts moved like thick honey. Oh, wait. If they were waking him up in the middle of the night, then..."Is something wrong?" Now he heard the sound of running feet moving about in the house and--faintly--the clash of metalware from the kitchens, but there was no smell of smoke. No one was yelling. Why--?

"Lord, I am sorry to wake you," replied Cousin Antarah. Tired and rumpled, it seemed as if he, too, had been woken out of a sound sleep. "Lord Michael, your father, is here!"

Papa's here? The news was so unexpected that Robert simply marvelled. Then pure joy took over. His father had come for him! He was going home at last!

"Here, I'll help you dress..." Antarah hung the lamp carefully on the room's lamp stand, and fetched the clothing that had been laid out on the divan.

Still dazed with sleep, Robert allowed Cousin Antarah to dress him in a clean cotton shirt and his new robe, which was a practical shade of brown, with wide embroidered bands on the sleeves. His outfit was completed with slippers and crocheted-cotton cap for his head.

Robert followed Antarah out of his room and across the starlit courtyard to the reception hall. It was brightly-lit, the patterns from the carved window-screens spreading over the courtyard's flagstones like gilded carpets. As he trotted in his tutor's wake, he felt his initial joy and anticipation turn to apprehension when he remembered what a failure he had proved as an Apkallu.

He couldn't perform the simplest tasks using the Hand of Air without intense and exhausting effort. And flying...well, flying had been ruled entirely out of the question by Master Jaleel. Robert had been looking forward to the day when he could soar alongside the gulls and terns he saw daily swooping over the docks.

At the entrance to the reception hall, Robert halted, overcome. Sir Michael de Murat, a glass goblet of blood clutched in one hand, stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by kin, and deep in conversation with Master Jaleel and Captain Thomas.

Robert stared. His memories, vague as they were, hadn't lied. Papa was every bit as tall and handsome as memory reported, and he was surrounded by the same golden glory that had dazzled Robert when he was young.

Cousin Antarah seemed just as impressed. He, too, had come to a halt, and was gazing upon the tall knight with wonder. "Lord Ea, remember me, your servant Ur-sang!" he murmured, in a voice scarcely loud enough to be heard above the babble of the rest of the voices in the stuffy chamber.

Everyone was upset and his father looked grave. Robert swallowed, hard. He should go make his greetings. He would...just as soon as he managed to swallow enough spit to keep from croaking like a raven when he spoke.

Then Captain Thomas caught sight of Robert and Antarah, and waved them forward. Of course, everyone else turned to look at them, too.

Robert only had eyes for his father, on whose face joy quickly turned to disbelief, then anger. Great golden wings spread out, filling nearly the entire chamber, and glowed sullen blood-red at the tips as Papa's blue eyes pierced Robert like a lance.

Robert stumbled a little on the thick carpets, but he managed to bow in the Frankish style as he'd been taught. He opened his mouth, and words flowed out, words he hoped were a proper greeting in langue d'oil, but his awareness had narrowed down to that angry, disappointed gaze. It was just at Aunt Cecilia had predicted. He drew in his wings, trying to hide their pallid weakness. He stared down at his slippered feet, and the geometric gold-and-red patterns of the carpet. "I'm sorry," he whispered. To his horror, his vision began to blur, just as if he was still a child. He tried to stop away the tears, but they kept coming, so he kept his head resolutely bowed.

And then strong arms were around him, lifting him up, and he was surrounded by the smell of sweat, wool, and faintly, resinous myrrh.

"Robert," said a deep voice. "My son, it is so good to meet again." He felt a kiss on his cheek, and then his father said, in a softer voice, "Don't cry, Robert. Please, don't cry."

"I'm sorry!" Robert burst out, his voice muffled because his face was pressed into his father's neck. "I'm sorry. I want to be stronger. I've been trying..."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, my son." Was Papa's voice shaking? "Your mother and I have both missed you very much." He didn't release Robert from his embrace as he addressed the others in a whiplash voice. "What has happened here? Who has done this to my son? And why was I not told?"

"L-lord," Jaleel quavered. "Lord, forgive us. We did not know--Sitt Rasheeda said--we had not yet received the news you brought--"

"Cecilia," Papa said, his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper now. There was death in that husking tone, death and horrible punishment. Robert had never heard anything that frightened him more, not even from his aunt. "For this crime, I will cut her heart out and feed it to her. I will make sure that she is Forgotten like the Cursed One."

"Lord!" cried Jaleel. "Forgive us, please!"

Robert heard a thump, as if Jaleel had fallen, but a cautious peek revealed the Master of the House in full prostration, his face pressed to the carpet. "Sitt Rasheeda said it was necessary. The boy consented! And the Cursed One is among us once more!"

"You know as well as I do that a beardless boy cannot lawfully consent to Transformation or the sharing of blood," Michael said, but his tone was scornful now, rather than deadly. "Nevertheless, the real responsibility for this act is Cecilia's. She knew exactly what she was doing when she ruined my son."

"Lord, you mean his powers--?"

Robert felt his father's hand cradle his head, and stroke the curling hair that escaped his cap. "--have been deliberately bound," Papa finished. "I can see something like a chain wound about his aura."

"And you can cure him, lord?" Habiya asked, filled with concern.

Robert felt his emotion echo hers. Was it true? Could his weakness be cured?

Papa's reply dashed hope. "I don't know. I've never seen a geas like this before--or at least I can't remember it." His voice held deep frustration. "But when we return to Beziers, perhaps my sister Lady Mathilde can find a way to unbind him." Papa drew him closer. "Blessed Virgin, you're only a boy. How could she do it?" he murmured, so that only Robert heard him.

"Are you taking me with you to London?" Robert asked. He wondered if Papa would be sailing with them on the Rose of Yarmouth.

Papa shook his head. "Your mother, Aunt Mathilde, and...Uncle Dominic, await us near Beziers, in Toulouse. And you'll get to meet some of your cousin Blanche's children, too." His face looked funny when he said that.

"The winds are contrary right now, lord," Captain Thomas said, apologetically. "So it may take us some time to reach Barcelona."

"No matter," said Papa. He set Robert down, and said to the assembled kin. "We'll start flying back at sunset. I promised the others I would return as soon as possible."

Jaleel bowed. "For today, then, we offer the hospitality of our house, and whatever supplies you need." He swallowed visibly. "And w-when Sitt Rasheeda returns...if she returns...we will serve her summons to council."

A council of elders? Was Aunt Cecilia going to be punished because she failed to Transform him properly? Robert wanted to ask, but Master Jaleel was already bowing and escorting Papa to the djinni's chambers to refresh himself and sleep. He would have to talk to Papa later, when they were alone.

The sky above the courtyard had turned gray with approaching dawn as Robert hurried back to his own rooms, following Cousin Antarah, who said his trunk and other belongings would be shipped to Beziers; he had only to pack a change of clothing and those few small items that could be carried by a djinn in flight. Those tasks were quickly accomplished, and there was nothing to do but wait through the long hot hours of the day for nightfall.

Robert wondered what it would be like to fly at last. Humiliatingly, he would be forced to wear a harness of silken cords, and Papa would have to carry him. But they would make it to Beziers in a matter of days, rather than the weeks required by ship-travel, and he would see Mama again within a fortnight. Finally, the sun began to sink into the west, and it was time to drink his supper of blood.

As he climbed the stairs to the roof, where Master Jaleel, Mistress Habiya, and the rest of the household waited to see them off, Robert vowed to himself that if he ever came this way again, it would be under his own powers, when he could glide through the air as effortlessly as his father, or Aunt Cecilia.

Chapter Three

"...the storm that annihilates countries

stunned the city,

the storm that will make anything vanish

wickedly stomped it,

the storm burning like fire

cracked the skin on the people,

the storm ordered by Enlil in hate,

the storm gnawing away at the country,

covered Ur like a cloth,

veiled it like a linen sheet."

--The Lament for Ur (Sumerian poem)

Along the coast of al-Andalus, Spain, Wednesday, 29th of the moon Muharram, 669 AH (September 17, AD 1270)

On the first night of travel Robert's father flew north along the coast. The stars shone with a light as sharp as silver blades glittering off the restless facets of the sea. Robert wanted to continue on this journey forever. Flying was even more wonderful than he had imagined when he had contemplated his destiny as a djinn. He loved the cool air beating against his face, bringing the scents of fishy brine and musky rotting seaweed, the earthy scents of dung and hay and smoke from the coastal villages and farms, the sharp fragrances of herbs and plants he couldn't identify. He loved the sight of the beaches and cliffs and occasional farms unrolling below. And most of all, he loved being in his father's company, with the prospect of seeing Mama again very soon.

Papa talked with him, and Robert thirstily soaked in every anecdote, every story. Papa related his adventures, and the adventures of his relations. In return, he told Papa about Cousin Antarah and his lessons in Arabic, about Cousin Khalil and learning the sword, and about how kindly Mistress Habiya and Master Jamal had treated him.

Papa told him Aunt Cecilia had deliberately bound his powers, but he didn't understand why she had done that. Hadn't she Transformed Robert because the House needed all its Protectors against the Cursed One? Why would she prevent him from being able to use all his powers?

"That's what I want to ask her," Papa said grimly, when Robert voiced his questions.

They dropped the subject by mutual consent, and Papa spoke instead of the Cursed One, which confused Robert further. After Aunt Cecilia's many many warnings, it was strange to hear that Papa remembered seeing her as a little girl in church every Sunday. He looked and sounded sad when he spoke of her. Robert tried to picture a golden-haired cousin who looked like Papa, and yet was the most dangerous djinniah alive. He wondered how his Aunt Mathilde felt, having to fight against her own daughter. It sounded like one of the stories that Cousin Antarah told of the intrigues at the courts of the sultans, where brother plotted against brother, wives against their husband's concubines, sons against fathers. It made Robert sad to think of, too.

They arrived in Cartagena near dawn, welcomed by the kin, who had a house near the harbor. Papa gratefully accepted the jars of blood offered to him, and fielded anxious questions about both Cecilia and the Cursed One with dignified courtesy. He had more shocked questions to answer when he handed off one of the jars to Robert.

Rapid-fire Spanish was exchanged between Papa and the Master of the House, and all Robert understood was that he was being presented as a Protector-in-training. It didn't require any knowledge of Spanish to interpret the looks of pity turned his direction when his djinn status became known, or to recognize Aunt Cecilia and Master Jaleel's names being discussed in outraged tones. He wanted to defend Master Jaleel, but his stumbling attempts to do so in Spanish were politely dismissed, and the conversation raced on ahead of his faltering tongue.

He was fluent in Arabic, but that language would become more useless the further north they traveled. In the meanwhile, he had English, French, Latin, and Greek, but very little Spanish yet, which would have been the most useful on this journey. Robert waited until they had been shown to the djinni's suite before making his request.

Papa sat on a stool with a weary sigh, and Robert rushed to help him pull off his boots. When he had put the boots neatly next to the linen press, he ventured, "I had a hard time understanding everyone. Will all the kin speak Spanish for the rest of our journey?"

Papa shook his head. "When we reach Barcelona, they'll be speaking Catalan. And in Beziers, the folk will be speaking langue d'oc, which is similar to Catalan."

"Can you teach it to me?" Robert asked, timidly, "in the way of the djinni?"

Papa's eyes widened in shock. "God, no!"

At Robert's involuntary flinch, his father reached out a comforting hand, and drew him close. "I'm sorry, Robert, but to share blood with you, before you've been Raised and Named...you'd be burdened with all the things I've done and seen. I don't want to do that to you, not yet. Maybe when you're older."

Robert didn't want to spend the rest of this journey not understanding what people said to him. It was bad enough that he was too crippled to fly by himself, but not to be able to speak for himself? He began to protest, but bit off the rest of his words when he saw the sad line of his father's mouth.

"Go to sleep now," Papa said, gently. "I promise I'll teach you some words and phrases tonight, on our way to Valencia."

"Yes, Papa," Robert murmured, trying to feel grateful that his father was at least willing to instruct him. But it would have been so much easier to simply absorb the knowledge the way that he had been told the djinni could. Not that he'd ever had the chance, he thought, sulkily, as he began to pull off his own clothes in preparation for sleep. Aunt Cecilia had forbidden him to taste the blood of any human being until his Appointing, and she had never let him taste her blood. When would he be allowed to finally use those few powers left him?

* * *

Venice, Feast of St. Luke, Thursday, September 18, AD 1270

For Blanche and Roland it was four nights of hard flying west from Constantinople during the dark of the moon, over the arid, mountainous landscape of Greece, then north, along the rugged Dalmatian coast, seeing stony soil and brown grass give way to thick forests. Near dusk on the fourth day, as they crossed over the narrow arm of the Adriatic Sea, Blanche saw a cluster of tiny church spires and red-tiled roofs rise from the middle of a gray-green lagoon set in a flat coastline. The clean wind off the faraway Alpine slopes was tainted by the pall of hearth smoke from innumerable fires.

They had finally arrived in Venice. They descended cautiously toward the pastel city as the last rays of sunlight glinted off the pale domes of the cathedral. She was both unutterably weary and determined to continue home to her sons, if she could only--for a moment!--stand on solid ground.

The air roared past her ears as the inflamed orb of the sun winked sullenly out. Roland's tall figure, which had been a glorious hawk stooping at her side but a moment ago, grayed out. His aura still cast a crimson corona of rage to her Seer's eyes. Once ignited, his anger had fed upon itself, building brighter and hotter the further they flew.

Roland leveled from his steep glide and began a slow spiral. She matched his path, and saw from horizon to shadowy horizon: the still scarlet-drenched mountains crowned by a brand new moon; the silver tongue of the sea, going gray; the bulky shadows of the eastern shore. When the sky's cloak of midnight blue overtook the twilight, it was too dark for the people in the plazas below to see them in the air. As they drew nearer to the colorless surface of the sea, she began to see individual buildings in the city, lit by torches, even as the toylike galleys and wallowing cogs began to disappear against the dark water.

Roland showed her, mind-to-mind, the rooftop where he was going to land. They slipped down onto the roof in silence and alighted next to the dovecote, illuminated by a single lamp. She was in some state beyond exhaustion that had no name. So it was that, when Roland stooped down to look for the jars of blood Sharibet had agreed that her House would provide them, the voice that greeted them was a complete shock.

"Oh, you must be djinni!" said a little girl in the Venetian dialect, which Roland had foresightedly shared with Blanche the day before. She was perhaps the same age as Blanche's oldest son Pieter, and like him, all thin arms and legs, brown hair, big eyes, a piping sweet voice. "I know! I know! You're Lord Arjumand! You look like Lady Mathilde. She's not here now. Oh, you're pretty," she said, directly to Blanche. "You look just like Lady Mathilde, too. Who are you? I'm called Petronella. Shall I run and tell my mother that you've come? She's Cosima, the Mistress of the House."

Roland's face had gone still, and grim. <There's no food here for us.>

"Oh, no, wait! I almost forgot!" Petronella stood straight and solemn, folding her hands at her waist, bowing. "It is good to meet again." Then she relaxed, tilting her head in obviously practiced adorableness. "Do you need a pigeon? Let me show you. This is Ariel," she said, pointing at an indistinguishable bird, "and this is Bethiel." She pointed to another lump of feathers. "And this is Ceriel..."

"Petronella," Blanche said in her most authoritative mother-voice, "We're supposed to find jars of food here. Do you know whether your family has received any message from Sharibet recently?"

Petronella blinked, frowning slightly. "Mother Sharibet? Yes! They're having a meeting about it now. Shall I call them?" Before Blanche could stop her, she had pulled a cord hanging from the dovecote. A sweet bell rang out.

<Damn!> Roland sent. <Wish she hadn't done that.> He picked Petronella up, earning a big grin from her. She nestled into his shoulder as trustingly as only a fully beloved and cosseted daughter could. <We may have to--> Roland started to send a picture of Petronella, eyes closed, head lolling...

She cut him off, fiercely, with the most absolute negation she could send to him. <No. Sooner you should kill me now and be done with this. How can you lay a hand of harm upon this innocent?>

<She's not innocent,> Roland said, exasperated. <Well, she's innocent now, but it's only because she can't remember anything yet. According to Mathilde's report to Sharibet, she was Simon Major in her last life. And he was the Man of the Ax at my Appointing. He was prepared to kill me then.>

<He--she--he--whatever, might have had an excuse. You have none.>

Footsteps racing up stairs sounded clearly. Somebody missed a tread as a face appeared at the opening. Then they disappeared, shouting, "Intruders on the roof!"

Petronella cried, "Intruders? Intruders, no, papa!"

"They've got Petronella," a man's distraught voice bellowed.

Roland insisted, <In the air. Now! Get clear.>

Blanche obeyed. When she stabilized, a hundred yards up, she did not find Roland in the air with her. Horrified, she saw him still on the rooftop, holding Petronella. <What are you doing?>

<Fly higher! You're still in range of-->

Shutters at the windows of the building below snapped open, and the vicious rustle of crossbow bolts shredded the air. Her instinct was to escape, straight up. The bolts followed her. One scraped her calf, and she felt its burning. Then another, traveling faster, ripped through her lower ribs. It was a moment before she began to register any pain. Then she choked on blood.

"NO!" Roland roared. He drew power from the air and from the earth. She knew she needed to put distance between herself and that danger, but there was something wrong with her aura, over and above the fact that she couldn't breathe. And then lightning smashed into the House of the Rose, dazzling her eyes, deafening her ears. She could not feel her aura at all now.

She fell, spinning in the air. Stars and moon, houses and water whirled. One whole corner of the house appeared to have fallen into the canal. The rooms within were on fire. She grabbed for air with her human fingers. Where had her aura gone? Her heart beat so fast she thought it--and she--would shake loose from her body. She had no breath to scream. Where was the ground?

She hit the water of the canal with a mighty <smack!> Water closed over her head, and she sank like a stone.

* * *

Roland felt the concussion as Blanche hit the water. Sickened, dizzy, he yet finished setting fire to the priceless tapestry revealed when his lightning strike had sloughed the face of the building away. He started more fires. They had dared to harm his daughter!

They would burn. But--

Petronella, little fingers clinging to his hair, skinny legs wrapped around his chest, shrieked, a thin rabbit sound.

He swooped down to the canal, hovering above the spot where Blanche had disappeared. The water still surged. It had left dirty splash marks on the houses all around. Clamor was rising in the whole neighborhood, with shutters slamming open and dogs baying. He couldn't hold the hover for long. A projecting spar from a galley tied up to the next house swayed only a little under his hand of air.

With another hand he reached down into the water. It wasn't too deep, but the galley rocked. Someone shouted, "He's standing on the water!" He didn't care what anybody saw, what anybody thought.

He opened his seer's eyes, looking for Blanche's bright star. There! Dim, rising slowly through the murky water. He grabbed for her and missed. He grabbed again, and caught her this time. She was utterly limp. Her head broke the surface and he shaped his hand of air into a wide band around her chest to force the filthy water out of her stomach and lungs, but all he got was a river of blood from her mouth. She convulsed and he squeezed again. Then he pulled her torso free of the water.

Oh, God. The crossbow bolt was still in place, from her back to below her breast. He screamed frustration, fear for her, and rage at the enemies who had dared, dared--

"Our house is burning!" Petronella yelled in his ear. Had been yelling, apparently. He was only now registering the sound. "You have to protect us! Why aren't you protecting us?"

He had no time to deal with her. He lifted and then pushed Blanche onto the dock by the galley. There she lay, bleeding and dripping, half on and half off of the dock.

"Petronella," he said, careless of her fear. "You must tell them, your parents, the people of the House. No one harms my daughter."

"I...I understand. But...who's your daughter?"

"This is my daughter. Inanna, the Queen of Heaven. Can you remember that?"

Petronella nodded jerkily, amber eyes glassy, her lips shaping the Cursed One.

"Good. Be sure to tell the Master of the House exactly what I have said." He set her down onto the wave-splashed dock.

She scrambled away, backward, not daring to take her eyes off him.

"Remember my message to the Master." He didn't wait for a reply. He scooped Blanche into his arms and beat his aura wings, taking off high over the canal, ignoring the incredulous shouts of mortals who saw him. He had to find a place of safety, where he could pull that damned bolt out of her. And someplace where he could feed her blood, to speed her healing.

* * *

Almost immediately below was a broad marketplace, with permanent butchers' stalls containing livestock. He swooped down, searching for some animal he could steal, and found a young goat, not too large. He lifted it off the ground, bawling, and carried with him westward over the large canal. But when he got to the edge of the lagoon, he couldn't see any habitations on the mainland in the dark.

Blanche was still bleeding from the crossbow bolt. If he didn't pull it out soon, she'd heal around it, and it would be much harder to remove.

He found the rooftop of a church, and set Blanche down. He held the goat motionless, keeping its mouth closed so it could only whine. His hands shook, but he had to get the bolt out of her. It went all the way through, thank God. He didn't have to cut the tip out of her. And, another mercy, it was a standard bolt, not tipped with the special poison the House brewed to subdue erring djinni.

He snapped the tip, using his aura like shears. He drew the bolt from his daughter's body in a quick snap. She woke with a scream, and he had to hold her down, too. Whispering soothing words, and wordless encouragement, he brought the struggling goat near. He cut its throat near her mouth so it bled where she could drink.

She drank. The blood stained her face and her gown, already shabby from travel and made filthy from the canal water. She drank the whole goat, and shivered when the animal died.

He lifted the carcass and placed it as far as he could reach across the roof of the church. Let the priest wonder where the dead goat came from! Patiently he waited for Blanche to come back to herself. She was crying tears of pain. Each one fueled fury in his heart. They had dared to harm his daughter!

<I'm all right,> she said, a patent lie. <Let's go on now.>

"You need rest," he told her, allowing no argument. "I'll find a place."

He carried her to a well-lit pilgrim's hostel near docks where the shipping traffic from the mainland tied up. He hid her bedraggled and nearly unconscious state from the hostel owner with the Voice of Coercion, and ordered a private room and personal attention from the hostel owner's wife, who was not averse to being paid, though she grumbled about being kept from her bed.

Blanche needed new clothes from the skin out. He spent her money freely to obtain the articles she needed. She was too busy coughing to remonstrate with him. He knew she would take no lasting harm, but even this temporary ailment racked his heart. He stood outside the private room's door while the goodwife brought clothes to Blanche. Something soft and blue and pretty was all he noticed. Her old clothes came out bundled and sopping, held at arm's length.

"What shall I do with--?" the goodwife demanded. She was plump and pale and dark-haired, with beady eyes that saw only gold.